


I Love You (But What Does That Mean?)

by Fullmetalcarer



Category: Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men RPF
Genre: Confused James, Filming, Gay for Each Other, Hotels, M/M, No cheating, Pining Michael, Promos, Trailers, post the divorce, premieres, stop now fmc, swearing (he's Scottish what do you expect), wtf with these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 19:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12139098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fullmetalcarer/pseuds/Fullmetalcarer
Summary: Michael says "I love you" at a premiere. James spends all night wondering what the fuck that means. It takes him until four in the morning to work it out.





	I Love You (But What Does That Mean?)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an anon prompt on tumblr

James felt he was finally getting over the split with Anne-Marie. It was mutual. It hadn't been working for either of them for a while. All the same, it had been hard. The fact that they'd both been determined to do the best for their boy had helped. Filming the latest in the X-Men series had helped. The cast were almost like family to him. Jennifer, the rowdy, good-hearted, tomboyish little sister. Nicholas, the sweet, funny little brother. And Michael. It was hard to describe what Michael was to him exactly. Big brother? Best friend? Accomplice? Confidant? No matter how long it was since they'd seen each other, when they met up again it was like they'd been apart five minutes.

The filming was great. Laughs. Jokes. Fooling around. Kidding about. And some pretty deep conversations with Michael. Conversations about his divorce. About his son. His abiding insecurity about acting. He'd talked about his feelings, which for a working-class Scottish lad was fucking remarkable. And Michael had listened and offered support and shared his feelings. Michael wondered if he'd ever find anyone he could feel serious about. He felt he'd never really been in love. He was worried about recent career choices, felt he was letting himself down and doing anything he was offered if the money was good enough.

Sometimes they'd sit in each other's trailers and watch crap tv and munch popcorn and critique the acting. Sometimes they'd read lines together. Sometimes they'd sit quietly, James reading a book (he was working his way through Roddy Doyle's stuff), Michael tapping away on his iPad. They'd lean on each other, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Once, when James had been feeling particularly fraught, Michael had wrapped his arms round him and held him tight for a good half hour.

One evening James was reading and Michael was streaming something and leaning on him. The lean started to get heavier and heavier. James was just about to joggle his shoulder and say "get off me, ya fat bastard" when he realised Michael was asleep. He considered the face of his sleeping friend; the auburn lashes, the straight nose, the sharp cheekbones, the thin-yet-curvy mouth, the strong jaw. A kind of harsh, angular beauty. A perfect blend of hard and soft. No wonder women went for him. If James went that way, he'd go for him.

Michael opened his eyes. He smiled at James, a small, soft smile. James smiled back. Silence. Stillness. He needed to say something, do something.

"Yer crushing me, ya great lump o' lard."

Something changed in Michael's face, some warmth and softness leaked away. Then he laughed and shifted his weight off James.

Everything carried on just the same after that.

Filming was done and all the chaos of the wrap party was exploding around him. For some reason he found himself avoiding Michael. Jen got a drinking game going. He mingled with the crew - he'd always found the technical side of filming fascinating - and thanked them for making him look good. Nicholas instigated a food fight. He dad-danced with the young uns. Then everything was winding down and people were drifting away. He felt the usual melancholy that accompanied the end of filming. Yet somehow it seemed different. Stronger. Infused with something more. Where was Michael? Fuck, he'd hardly spoken to him all evening and now he'd missed the chance to say goodbye. No, there he was.

"Michael. Michael!"

Michael looked up. James staggered over to him.

"Michael, you fucker, slipping away like that, avoiding me all night. Don't think you can give me the slip like that, ya bastard."

He flung his arms round him and hugged him tight, crushing his long, lean frame to his stocky body. God, he felt good. Michael's arms tightened around him. This was where he was meant to be. The hug lasted forever. Eventually Michael drew back and looked down at James. He looked . . . no, James had no idea what that look meant, but it didn't look entirely happy.

"See you at the promos, right?" slurred James.

"The promos. Yes, of course, the promos. Take care, James."

"You take care too, Mikey, Michael, Mike."

James gave him another forceful hug. After a moment's hesitation, Michael hugged him back, then disengaged and walked away with a wave and a smile. James watched him go. He felt . . . odd. Too much drink, that's what it was. Fuck, he'd suffer for it in the morning. Yeah, too much drink, that's all.

Usually James regarded the promos as a necessary chore, but this time around he was looking forward to them. When they all met up for the first one, he felt like a five year old at a birthday party. And there he was. Michael. He had a scruff of beard. So did James.

"Hey, we're a perfect match," said James, tugging Michael's ginger beard.

"A perfect match," repeated Michael.

There was a long pause, weighted with something James didn't understand. Then Michael smiled and ruffled James' hair.

"You're an idiot, McAvoy."

"You're an arse, Fatbender."

And everything was OK.

The promos were the usual round of interviews, panels and photos. When someone asked a particularly stupid question, James would glance at Michael and he'd quirk his mouth and James would know he'd got it. When the photographers were being excessively aggressive, Michael would look at him and James would raise an eyebrow and it would all be alright. When the fans were being a bit too fanatical, Michael would sling an arm round his shoulders and James would clasp his waist and he'd feel safe, grounded. Normally he couldn't wait for the promos to end, but this time he was sorry when it was all over and done with.

"Just the premiere to go, eh?" he said to Michael.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"What?" said James.

"What do you mean, "what"?"

"You looked like you wanted to say something."

"No . . . no . . . just . . . see you at the premiere."

"Right."

"Right."

"Bye."

"Bye."

James drove the stylist mad fussing over a suit for the premiere. He didn't know why it was so important for him to look good, but it was. In the end he settled on a dark blue suit, with a pale blue shirt and a dark blue tie. The stylist said it brought out his eyes and was perfect for his colouring. James liked the figure skimming fit. He'd thought he looked good, but when he saw Michael he was gobsmacked. Michael was in a grey check suit with a waistcoat. The fit was . . . was . . . well, it was good. Every time the jacket flapped open, James could see how the waistcoat emphasised Michael's absurdly narrow waist.

"Damn, you clean up nice," James said.

"You're not so bad yourself."

For the rest of the evening they were never more than a metre apart. They posed for photos. They signed autographs. They took selfies with the fans. They answered questions. It rained and they shared an umbrella. Michael slung an arm around his shoulder. James put an arm round that narrow waist. Michael rested his hand on James forearm. James wrapped his fingers round Michael's upper arms and jokingly presented him to the cameras. Finally they went into the cinema and settled into their seats.

The screening was a blur for James. For some reason he was intensely aware of Michael sitting next to him. The silhouette of his profile. The elbow that brushed James'. His breathing. The warmth of his body. His lean thigh, so close, so close.

As the credits were running and the audience was applauding, Michael turned to him. His face was shadowed in the dim lights of the cinema. He looked serious. He looked . . . beautiful. He leant forward.

"I love you."

The lights came on full and people were congratulating them, shaking their hands, clapping their shoulders, kissing their cheeks. They were separated by the crowd. James got through the post film interviews in a daze. As soon as he could he got away from it all - the lights, the camera flashes, the noise, the people, all the people - he went back to the hotel.

"Has Michael, Mr Fassbender, checked in?"

"Yes, sir. Do you want me to call his room?"

"No, no, thank you."

He took the lift to his floor and let himself into his room. He changed into an old, comfortable pair of jeans and a baggy tee. He took a whiskey from the mini bar. He drank it. He put the tv on and watched . . . what did he watch? No idea. He took a gin and a bottle of tonic from the mini bar. He drank it. He turned off the tv and picked up his tablet. Let's see what social media thought of the film. Oh. So many pictures of Michael. So many pictures of Michael and him. He dropped his tablet and picked up his book. He read the same page five times. He got a vodka out of the mini bar and used up the rest of the tonic. He drank it. What to do? What to do?

He had a shower and changed into boxers and another tee. He paced the room. He did some sit-ups, some push-ups, the plank. He paced some more. This was fucking ridiculous. Michael was his friend. Friends love each other. Michael had said "I love you" as a friend. That was it. No more to it than that. Pure and simple. Going over all their interactions for the last couple of years looking for something that wasn't there was insane. And it wasn't as if he wanted Michael to be in love with him. He wasn't gay. He'd experimented some, everybody did, didn't they? But he wasn't gay. He was a whatever it was on the Kinsey scale, where you were mostly heterosexual, but with a wee bit o' gay thrown in. It would be terrible if Michael was in love with him because he couldn't love Michael back. He didn't want to hurt Michael. He loved Michael. Like a friend. He couldn't love him the way he wanted him to. If he did want him to. Fuuuck. What time was it? Fucking two thirty. Fuck.

He put the tv on again. He selected the pay-for-view porn service. He found one that looked good. Oh, yes, that was good. Oh, yes, my beauty, you love it when I do that, don't you? He slipped his hand into his boxers and started stroking himself. The girl was lovely. Real tits. Looked as though she was actually enjoying herself, not just faking it for the cash. You lovely thing you, you want my cock, don't you? He grabbed a bottle of lotion out of his bag, squeezed some onto his hand, tightened his grip and stroked harder and faster. You lovely, lovely girl. Take it, take my cock. Oh, I'll make you feel so good, I'll make you so wet, I want you to love every minute of this. The bloke wasn't bad looking either. Sometimes the guys were so hideous it put you off. This guy wasn't bad though. Tall, thirties, long, lean, muscular body. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. James pumped himself furiously and came with a shout of:

"Michael!"

What the fuck? What the fuck! No, no, no, no, no! James stumbled over to the fridge and grabbed a mini bottle of white and one of red. He wasn't much of a wine drinker, but this was an emergency. He drank. He paced. He flicked the tv off and then on again. He googled "I'm straight but I've fallen in love with my best friend". It wasn't much help. He drank. He paced. He swore long and loud. Time? 4:17.

He went out onto the balcony. Dawn was doing her rosy fingered stuff. He looked out over the sleeping city. Except it was a city, so it wasn't sleeping. A lot of people were still working night shifts. Plenty more were getting up for an early start. Some were coming home from a night out drinking and drugging and dancing and fucking. Fucking. He thought about fucking Michael. About kissing that thin, sensual mouth. Of feeling a stubbled jaw against his. Imagined running his hands down those fucking unreal abs. Taking a firm grasp of that tight arse. Touching his cock. Michael touching his cock with those lovely, long fingers. It was strange. Those thoughts were strange, but not repulsive. The opposite of repulsive.

This was madness. He downed the last of the white wine. It was sharp and acidic. He glanced around. Standing on a nearby balcony, staring at him, was Michael. He was wearing briefs, tiny white briefs and nothing else. The grey dawn light gentled the angular planes of his body. His eyes, fixed on James, glittered.

Fuck this.

James sprinted off the balcony, through his room, out the door and down the corridor. Michael's door opened. James skidded to a halt and stood there, panting. Michael was half a foot taller than him, but he looked small and vulnerable standing there in the doorway. James was distracted by the massive bulge in his briefs. Concentrate, Jamie boy, concentrate.

"What you said, about loving me, what did you mean?"

Michael shifted his stance like a boxer squaring up for a fight.

"I meant exactly what I said. I love you."

He sounded defiant.

"No like a friend?"

A shake of the head.

"Like, romantically, like?"

A sharp nod. His eyes were bright, but he faced James with a proud lift of his chin.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. Oh, Michael, I'm a daft, wee cunt, so I am. I love you too."

Michael's eyes widened almost comically. James threw himself into his arms, grabbed Michael's hair, tugged his head down and kissed him. Teeth clashed, noses got in the way, Michael tasted like he'd been drinking too, yes, he could do with brushing his teeth and both of them attempted to get their tongues into each other's mouths at once. Michael laughed into the kiss, pulled him into the room and pushed the door to with James' back.

Michael disengaged.

"Slow down now, here, let me," he whispered.

He put one hand to the nape of James' neck and the rested the other on James' hip. He tilted his face to one side and pressed his lips to James'. He touched delicate kiss after delicate kiss to upper lip and lower lip and the corners of his mouth. James felt as though he was melting from the outside in. He got his hands to Michael's ridiculous waist and gently, oh so gently, squeezed. Michael's body was warm and solid against his. Chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh, rapidly hardening cocks separated by a couple of layers of fabric. And all the time Michael kissed him, soft and thorough and tender.

It felt weird. It felt good. It felt right.

They didn't do much, just jerked each other off like a couple of clumsy teenagers. Lying on the bed next to Michael, covered in sweat, his own come and Michael's come, another man's come, he felt at peace for the first time in years. He had no idea how long this would last. Maybe it'd burn itself out in a few months. Maybe they'd be together when they were as old as the Sirs. There'd be paparazzi and agents and sponsors and friends and family to deal with. There'd be some serious shit thrown at them from all corners. But with his good friend Michael at his side he thought he'd manage.

"Next time, do you think we could do a bit more?" said Michael.

"Sure, but if anyone's giving . . . "

"I'm the tallest, doesn't that mean I top?" grinned ol' shark face.

"We're all the same height lying down. Besides, if you think I'm letting that anaconda anywhere near my arse, you've got another think coming."

Michael laughed and rolled him onto his face and rutted against him. James fought back and they ended up taking turns at intercrural.

"God, your thighs, your thighs," groaned Michael.

"Your everything," moaned James.

When they were done and able to breath again, James laughed.

"What?"

"Well, it's called "Oxford style", but I'm Scottish and you're Irish."

"You're an idiot."

"You're an arse."

"My idiot."

"My arse."

They laughed so loud the people on either side complained to reception.


End file.
